The Strongest Light of Love: Van Gogh

Van Gogh\ Vincent Van Gogh, March 30, 1853 – July 29, 1890? July 27, 1890, he committed suicide in Auvers-sur-Oise, France, due to a mental breakdown, and died two days later. God is just; geniuses must endure suffering and experience hardships time and time again. Just like Edison and Einstein... they were not normal people; in some aspects, they were even less capable than normal people, verging on being mentally deficient. The extraordinary Van Gogh was also abnormal.\ When Van Gogh was close to a mental collapse, he once cut off one of his ears with a razor blade. He was attempting to awaken himself with this act, to stop the escalating madness in his mind by targeting an innocent ear—perhaps in that moment, he reconciled with the world, yet he doubled his hatred for himself, despising the ugly, distorted man in the mirror. Thus, his gesture was like a runaway train crashing off the tracks, accompanied by a sensation of pain mingled with pleasure or pleasure mingled with pain; that blood-soaked ear became his own sacrifice. Perhaps in Van Gogh's mind, the ear was merely a redundant piece of flesh in this life—it could hear the clamor of the world, yet remained indifferent to the storm raging within? Or maybe, he was too afraid of listening to his own groans day and night—that was even more piercing, more unforgettable, than thunder and lightning outside. Otherwise, his blade would not randomly select a target—even if it was as insignificant as an ear, it was purposeful. In the initial contact between the icy metal and the burning flesh, Van Gogh was filled with a destructive desire toward himself and the entire world; he had to break something to achieve balance. This is what is terrifying:\ For the ear that Van Gogh cut off, the sound of the sea was also the sound of blood, the vivid sound. It was as if he was about to be submerged by the world's blood, by the dusk of the sea. The ear was the sunset on his shoulder, struck with heavy force. In the novel by female writer Chen Ran, there is a passage: “I do not love the man with this ear, I only love this ear that purely pursues death and burning; I am willing to be this ear's eternal widow.” That ear, falling to the ground with a sound, was the gentlest fragment in the world, a souvenir of a silent war—in our imagination, it constantly takes the place of the master's withered heart, beating like a clock that never stops. In the eyes of the world, Van Gogh was insane.But in the hearing of this one ear, the world had gone mad. This was a harvester of pain, whose sickle ultimately reaped his own ear. The world failed to save this dying patient. Van Gogh put down the bleeding razor blade—soon, he picked up a revolver again. He seemed increasingly to regard himself as an imagined enemy, constantly choosing weapons to attack with. The ultimate result was naturally destructive: in a wheat field in Arles, France, he used the hand accustomed to holding a paintbrush to pull the trigger on himself. Every time I admire the works left by Van Gogh more than a century ago (even in prints), for some reason, I can vaguely smell the scent of gunpowder—or rather, the scent of death. But compared to his death, his madness seems even more terrifying. A castrated ear is more shocking than a body that has been shot. Van Gogh died, yet he left behind a famous ear—this final relic seems not to have lost its hearing, collecting the commentary of later generations. This bleeding ear that exists in the story still today serves like a stethoscope embedded in our lives, probing our conscience. Van Gogh is dead, but the ear is still alive and still retains memory. Why not support him when he was moaning and collapsing—world, did you hear? Where are your ears positioned? With a serious character and an original painting style, explain your work with colors. Since this integrated 'Women of Arles'-style is still rare, people will think this is a work by both you and me, the result of many months of collaboration. I would probably make this painting into a print with other memories of Provence landscapes. I really want to send you one, a complete summary, more thoughtful and more planned. My brother said Lauzet made some lithographs of Monticelli, very similar to the portraits of people in Arles. But you will understand the confusion after Paris; I haven't seen your oil painting yet. However, I hope to return in the next few days. The mystery of Vincent Van Gogh's death and the hidden facts behind it, as well as the tragedy that happened 100 years ago, are still a mystery. But one day, all mysteries will be completely revealed.